


Of Kindness No Less Sweet

by rabbitprint



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Adoption, Adult Children, Apocalypse Work-Life Balance, Character Study, Family, Gen, aging parents, self-care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 12:13:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21099287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbitprint/pseuds/rabbitprint
Summary: Set pre-game, spoilers for 5.0 MSQ. Lyna and the Crystal Exarch. The world may be in ruins, but that's all the more reason to care."How much of a sinner are you?" she asks anyway, on principle.His smile -- the only thing she can see of his face -- is gentle. "I try."





	Of Kindness No Less Sweet

The week of her eighth nameday, Lyna kills her cousin.

It is not a death which she claims credit for, later. She is young at the time -- very young, barely able to hold a knife steady, let alone a sword. Both her mothers have been dead for years by then; they had left Yx'Maja shortly after she had been born, resettling in Kholusia and then dying there. She had not remembered the eaters who had taken them, but she had been even smaller at the time, unable to fight and stuffed into a closet for her own safety while the beasts had feasted outside. 

She has no memory of violence to preserve her mothers by, and so they are lost forever.

As with all orphans, the caretakers at the Crystarium had made an effort to find her kin, of course. Foundlings were not a new phenomenon; neither were families which had been ripped apart and scattered to every corner of Norvrandt. It was foolish to try and find the wood-warder who had sired Lyna -- there would have been no purpose in it anyway -- but the caretakers did their best, with a stoic practicality that spoke of far too much experience in the work. In the end, they uncover a distant cousin, and add Lyna briskly to the list.

_At least the children stand a better chance of escaping,_ she would hear the workers sigh. _Their size makes them barely a snack for the eaters. They've had no time to sup on vice._

The Crystarium forces have fair luck on the first leg of their journey through Lakeland. They escort a young hume to one family, find a new apprenticeship for a ronso at another. As destinations are checked off one by one, Lyna finds her name rising to the top, next in line to meet her kin at Radisca's Round and begin a fresh life from there.

But Lyna's cousin never makes it all the way to safety. The eaters are always hungry. They are the ones who find the woman's caravan first.

By the time the Crystarium caretakers and Jobb soldiers arrive, the merchants are a mess of blood and mutilation. The wagons are overturned, fruits and dried meats tossed aside to spoil in the dirt. The caravan driver is in pieces on the road, his body being picked into even smaller chunks for the Sin Eaters to swallow. Feathered cocoons bulge and pulse, rocking as the contents hatch like feathered spiders, long limbs revealing themselves to the light.

It is not a battle at that point, but an execution on both sides.

The Crystarium reinforcements take the field quickly, driving back the greater Sin Eater with their pikes; the monster beats its wings and recoils in surprise, face as placid as the statue it imitates. The orphans scatter, stumbling and scraping their knees as they flee alongside the frantic caretakers gathering them away in a desperate huddle. Lyna is dragged into their wake. She is lost among their robes and leathers, merely a stripling: a kit whose ears are short and stubby, of no worth noticing.

The other children wail, hiccuping and sobbing in panic. The lesser eaters bleed away into smoke, writhing with impotent rage on the ground. Their claws and jointed limbs ebb away into the breeze. The beasts screech as they thrash in their broken rage, hobbled but no less dangerous in their last attempts to feast upon the living. 

But Lyna limps over, both hands on the hilt of a dagger, and stabs inelegantly at the thing that had once been her blood-relative. Its tail coils in frantic lashes like a snake, convulsing on the ground in instinctive anger. She isn't able to finish the kill cleanly, twisting around to dodge the monster's claws as it jerks, the pale fluid from its veins soaking her thighs. 

There is no room left in Lyna to shriek; her heart is filled to flooding with the other children's screams. 

It takes all her weight on the pommel to send it home. She finally wiggles the blade deep enough into the creature's throat, scraping and lodging it against anatomy she no longer knows how to identify, and it makes a final spasmodic wail before going still. 

With a choked gasp, Lyna collapses against its dissolving body and watches as the yawning, retching mouth of the Forgiven dissolves into turgid mist, and then into nothing at all.

  


* * *

  


She keeps to herself on the rest of the journey back, wrapping herself in silence like a set of softened leathers, the protection of it entombing her alive. The caravan is slow with the burden of its dead. The wounded take the wagonbeds, groaning softly with each jostle of the road. Lyna walks on foot, following along the path to Radisca, where healers may be found for relief.

At least, she thinks, she does not have to worry about her cousin's remains. There is no body left to bury.

The Crystarium forces make the remaining circuit between towns swiftly, moving between aetherytes whenever possible, and by cart for the smaller farms between. Two children are added to their train; one elf is removed, taken in by a pair of mystel who work as tanners. Lyna watches him disappear into his new home in Weed without a backwards glance at the Crystarium guards, and wonders if his expression shows relief, or simply more uncertainty.

Afterwards, once they return to the Crystarium and she is asked, _do you wish to seek out other kin_, Lyna shakes her head in adamant refusal. Again and again: _no._

Instead, she listens to the caretakers as they talk about how best to parcel out the older orphans who are coming closer to adulthood, who might be best as an artisan and who as a farmer, of crafters who had lost their own apprentices and lack anyone else to pass their knowledge down to. The Crystarium is a quilt of bloodlines stitched together. There are chirurgeons in need, engineers without students. Blacksmiths and weavers and scribes, all wanting.

Everyone, after all, lacks something these days.

But Lyna only sits on her wooden chair and stares at the floor, unresponsive to every question thrown her way. The crystal lighting of the room is dim. Her fingers still feel sticky from the road, grimed with sweat and dust. She stinks of amaro. Beyond the chamber, she can smell the faint humidity of the river-currents flowing beneath the Crystarium, precious water drawn up from the vein beneath. The muttering of the caretakers comes through just as distantly, as she sits and tries to think of nothing, her spine turned into a pillar of refusal that keeps her upright like a stake.

Finally, the Crystal Exarch himself drifts through the door to accept the reports and see the newcomers. Lyna has seen him before, in and out of the children's hall. He was there the very first time she was brought in, sandals whispering as he paced slowly among the latest batch of orphans, checking each one: for aether imbalance, Mist disease, but also -- some of the children had whispered -- for Minfilias. She has no vivid recollection of him either, save for the warm brush of his fingers on her chin, a reassuring pat of his left hand upon her shoulder that had lingered behind even after his departure.

He comes to her at last, at the end, and Lyna eyes him with the baleful bitterness of a child already aware that no amount of sugar can conceal the truth.

"I heard about your loss," he offers quietly, which is a stupid thing to say in Lyna's opinion: he'd have to be far more specific.

She looks down at the floor past her feet, and tries not to let her disappointment in him show. "It was the eaters," she replies, kicking her toes and hoping the conversation will end there. Always, the eaters.

The Crystal Exarch shifts his weight gingerly as he brings his staff to rest beside him, the sheen of its gold matching his own glittering veins, as if the weapon and his arm are one and the same. "There are families here in the Crystarium who would welcome you into their clans. Or, we can send word directly to Yx'Maja, and petition your kin for your acceptance. There is a scout leaving for the Greatwood in three suns -- I can advise him of your need."

"_No,_" she snaps, vexed by the perpetual stupidity of adults, particularly when they believe they are well-meaning. "I don't _want_ to be part of a family. The Sin Eaters will just take them too. Why find someone just so you can lose them again? I'd rather not know them at _all._"

She expects him to _tsk_ at her and provide only a lecture about how even this sorrow will pass, and she will feel differently soon enough. But the Exarch merely pauses, the hood masking all but the shadows of his eyes, his mouth making the full of his gestures for him as he starts and stops his replies, soundless second-thoughts upon the air.

"That is indeed a very good question," he eventually acknowledges, and Lyna appreciates, remotely, how he doesn't attempt to lie to her. "If a family in of itself does not suit, there are other options. There is a jeweler in the Musica who has recently lost her journeyman, and needs another. She is kind-hearted, and has no other living relatives. She would be grateful to have you, if you are willing -- "

"I'll fight the eaters," she interrupts him, ignoring his platitudes. There is no other choice. She can't stop thinking about how her cousin had twisted in transformed agony on the ground, the bones of their face stretching like fingers pulled through kneaded dough. How her own mothers might have wailed, watching each other be torn apart in front of them. If one of them had been turned first, and had consumed the other. She remembers the spattered milk of her cousin's blood, the weight of the knife shaking in her hands. "I'm going to become a soldier. Tell me what I need to _be_ one."

The fervency of her proclamation causes the Exarch's head to tilt, sidelong, as he considers her from another angle from beneath his hood. "Are you certain?"

"Exarch," one of the other caregivers speaks up at last, clawed hands wringing together in concern. They edge closer, ears flicking nervously in respect. "We are always grateful for the aid you can provide us, but the Settlement council has not left us wanting this year. Our supplies are good for now -- please, do not fear that we cannot provide for all the children under our watch."

But the Exarch is the one to protest this time, tilting his staff idly to the side with a cant of his wrist; its length rolls in his fingers, caught easily against his fingertips as it glistens with reflected crystal-light. "Consider it an indulgence to myself," he suggests softly, and then turns his full attention back to Lyna, "It is a dangerous life," he warns. "If time is what worries you, then know that you can remain here in the Crystarium until you decide. Until you are old enough to master a trade, I would still make certain you are provided for. Fighting the Sin Eaters is difficult work, and often frightening."

"_I_ can be difficult too," she insists. "And I can take care of you as well, if you're _that_ scared," she declares bluntly, without chagrin: adults have all failed her, she's as good as one of them now. 

Rather than chastise her for her temerity, the Exarch leans against his staff, his mouth curving up at the corners like a bow being tested with its string. "That's even harder to do, I fear. You should save your efforts for the people around you," he advises softly. "Stone such as I does not need tending."

"'Everything needs looking after,' that's what the caretakers always say," Lyna recites back loftily, scorning his authority freely. "Even rocks. And I _want_ to fight," she says, made bold now by his lack of outright refusal. "If no one does, then everyone will die, and that means the Light _wins._"

This, at last, seems to make it through the man's deflections. He slides his fingers down the staff with a rasp, straightening both it and himself upright. "Then come fight under the Crystarium's banner," he agrees. "I will make certain you are able."

She slides off her chair eagerly before he can change his mind, bouncing lightly on her toes as she lands; her body is stiff from sitting too long, but her muscles are already warming back to life. She is small enough that she should be able to see fully underneath the Exarch's hood from that angle -- but he kneels, swiftly, before she can glimpse more than a flash of crimson and white. Theoretically, he is simply coming closer to her speaking level, but Lyna has the canny suspicions of a child: she knows he is aware full-well of what he does.

It's fine, she reasons. A transformation of stone is at least safe. The Crystal Exarch may not be touched in the same way as a Sin Eater, but he hides himself away just as carefully, and the secrecy makes her curious -- not wary.

"How much of a sinner are you?" she asks anyway, on principle.

His smile -- the only thing she can see of his face -- is gentle. "I try."

  


* * *

  


Her life changes very little for having been adopted -- a decision which makes sense gradually, once she realizes just how many of the city's affairs the Crystal Exarch is involved in, and how often he vanishes among them. She still attends lessons with the other orphans, eats meals with the Crystarium's caretakers, has her health measured and clothes replaced at regular intervals. She is not forced to change her name to another family's appellation, nor to discard her own opinions in favor of the Exarch's beliefs.

Her world remains stable, and that stability is both a surprise and a relief.

The Exarch is a discreet guardian. For a man so respected throughout the city, Lyna learns that he prefers to move as quietly as he can, yielding often to the other voices of the Crystarium so that his decree is not the only one heard. He is careful not to call attention to himself whenever he visits her weapon practices, or to show her any overt favoritism, though -- like all her other teachers -- he asks often if she has been making time to rest and attend to her needs. Rather than usher her into an isolation mirroring his own, the Exarch brings Lyna relentlessly back to her peers, meeting her often at the study tables and the Rotunda as he asks about her studies for the week. He escorts her to the Cabinet and sits with her as she works on her numbers there, introducing her to the library so that she can learn to navigate its ways on her own; he serenely pays her fees whenever she is late returning a particular tome, or has spilled her dinner across it. He sends food to her quarters whenever she has been caught up in reading -- all her attention caught up in trying to memorize a Norvrandt of the past while simultaneously learning how to survive the present -- but does not pen her up behind a golden door, to be surrounded by glittering stone and whispers.

There are some small changes, ones which she appreciates for their comfort. Her rooms are established at the Catenaries, the bill settled with care by the Exarch; he is exacting in this, she learns, taking as thorough an account of her costs as if she were any other resident of the city. Rather than abuse his influence by laying claim to anything he wished within the Crystarium's reach, the Exarch is careful to keep the balance even, leaving not even the smallest debt behind unanswered. 

She reads her cues from him early, along with an inventory of his habits: despite his verbal secrecy, the Exarch's body language advertises every moment of his mind. She catches how he shies from casual contact, holding himself carefully still whenever another person is near, as if to prevent himself from the temptation of such simple comforts as touch. He is a man of watchful boundaries -- never letting others dwell within the tower, never sharing his name or his past -- but his kindness is offered with no signs of mistrust or hostility towards other strangers, even as he smiles away his own silences. He offers his gentleness like the weapon it is: as a relief against the unrelenting despair which has infected Norvrandt, a generosity which knows how easily it can sear by its very existence.

She is tempted to press -- but, just as he shows restraint, Lyna forces herself to practice the same. The Crystal Exarch has given her permission to study as she desires, and has asked for nothing in return. 

She can learn to respect his choice, just as he has shown respect to hers first.

He gives her no other name for use. She does not ask. She calls him the Exarch, and tries for nothing more intimate. She does not ask to be allowed to roam the Tower; free license is not offered, and she can guess why as soon as she learns about the locks and mechanical defenses still active within many of its halls. He does not coddle Lyna, and only chokes back a pained, squeaking laugh when she asks if _grandfather_ would be better than _uncle_ to suit his advanced age; he speaks of no obligations, nor expectations in kind. He does not dissuade Lyna from war, but listens patiently instead as she asks which tools she needs to engage in it, describing the differences between officer ranks while he watches her attempt to memorize each daunting list of responsibilities.

She does not know why the Exarch is so willing to give her that freedom, but she is grateful for it. Once Lyna becomes a soldier, then he will have to send her out onto the field, and not be bound by chains of sentimentalism. Someday, the Exarch may have to order her to die. 

Either way -- from age or battle -- he will have to be the one to bury her. Though they are unrelated, their bodies are in one another's hands.

  


* * *

  


The Exarch is not new to orphans, she further confirms. Despite herself, Lyna looks up the names of the ones who came before: galdjent, hume, mystel. Most became soldiers. A few left the Crystarium to become traders and scholars -- both an equally risky business.

All of them are dead by now, every single one.

"I am not the first foundling you have provided for," she remarks succinctly to him one afternoon while they are both tucked away in a corner of the Cabinet of Curiosity, with the cutting edge of a kit who has no intention of being distracted onto safer topics.

The Exarch is in the midst of laying out a rudimentary primer on fae riddles when she surprises him. "No," he acknowledges after a moment, and then adds something, pixie-cant quick upon his tongue, that she does not catch. His staff, leaning on the desk beside him, glitters in an answering ripple as if laughing at her.

She knows better than to ask him to translate; that would only earn her a reminder to focus on her studies. "Was one of them yours? Did you lose them to the eaters?"

She does not know what makes her ask, except out of some rudimentary jealousy -- if all his adopted wards are merely stand-in apologies for some dead infant in an unmarked grave somewhere -- but the Exarch exhales slowly, and refills her half-forgotten cup of tea.

"No," he answers again, simply, and then pours his own draught. "I have never had offspring of my own. I have no apprentice, and I will have no heir."

"Not even Gaurilka?" She thinks she remembers the name correctly, fumbling with the pronunciation and mashing the letters together. "The one who went to live in the Greatwood. He studied trees. He wrote a book about them, I've _seen_ it."

"Not even him." The measured patience in the Exarch's words is delivered with a heaviness which rings with finality, and Lyna is reminded -- belatedly -- that dead is still dead. If Gaurilka had changed his name under the auspice of the Night's Blessed, the Exarch may not even have known what had happened to the man until the end.

But before she can apologize, the Exarch opens his mouth to continue. The library is hushed around them, all sound muffled even to her ears; his voice barely stirs the air. "There was another person whom I lost. There were... many people lost, by the end. Like Norvrandt, there was death all around me in my homeland, and it touched everyone I knew. Scarcely had I time to mourn my first fallen before there were even more to add to the list. I lost count. I swore it would never happen, that I would remember them all, but there were too many. Even for me."

Papers relinquished, the Exarch lets his hands sink to the table, palms flat, crystal and flesh overlapping together. The veins of his right arm glitter in the candlelight. His next words are even slower, his mouth hesitating over the syllables, as if he must dislodge them like pieces of stone from his own flesh. "That was when I truly began to learn what it is like to be the one who is left behind, after another's passing. And that taught me that I never wanted to be the cause of such pain in someone else." Slowly, methodically, he moves to take his teacup into his hands, wrapping his fingers around the delicate porcelain as he soaks in the heat without flinching. "There is enough sorrow already in this world, Lyna. I would rather be forgotten than to add to that. Even if my loved ones were angry with me, or even -- or even if they came to _hate_ me, then at least they would be freed from grief."

The teapot leaks a steady curl of steam in the air between them, cooling by degrees. Lyna watches fragments of leaves settling in the bottom of her cup without truly seeing them. A messenger from Ostall clatters in; she ignores them as well, even as the Exarch excuses himself hastily from the table and takes the news. 

It feels as if she has already known his answer all along. Like a beast lurking in the underbrush, huffing its hot breath into the leaves, she has sensed his reasoning from the start. With every mixed gesture of affection and restraint, every time she had seen her guardian extend himself while simultaneously refusing anyone to draw close, she has watched that endless pattern: a cycle of generosity where the Exarch is the one who thrives upon sharing, and then denies any need for it himself. 

She has seen, over and over, how often the Exarch shows a desire to care for those around him -- but not to be cared for in return. In a world of desperate connections, he gives and refuses in the same breath.

_In case the Tower ever disappears someday_, she hears him repeat later, every time someone asks why the rest of the structure is not used. It is a question which surfaces perpetually throughout the years. The answer never changes, and in the soft restraint of the Exarch's words, Lyna also comes to know he means: _in case I vanish, as well._

  


* * *

  


She grows quickly out of childhood under her guardian's watch. Her ears and limbs stretch into the awkward imbalance of adolescence; she bumps them against doorways and struggles with shirt collars. She becomes as tall as the Exarch, and then taller. Even as her needs escalate alongside her height -- for more food, more training equipment, more patience from her instructors as she nearly takes out another student's eye during practice -- Lyna finds that she has only that much further to go, and the challenge of it fuels her better than any meat or sleep.

By now, she and the Exarch have visited nearly every corner of the Crystarium together, from the glittering towers of Rapture to the deliberate gardens of Sweetsieve. There is no place in the city that does not have an echo of him inside it. It is an act as deliberate as anything else her grandfather has plotted: Lyna owns no memory of him which has not been made all the richer with the Crystarium there, its noises intertwining with his voice, its colors caught in reflections on the crystal of his arm. He has circumvented the issues of his own secrets by offering the city itself in his stead, and the city has, in turn, granted Lyna its strength. 

With each distinction she earns, she does so unquestionably on her own merits. Her victories are drawn from her lessons, both good and bad, and Lyna relentlessly twists each of her failures into more impetus to learn. Her sorrows are no greater than that of her peers, and the bitterness of that truth grants her courage: she is not alone.

Two of her classmates have lost their entire families as well. Three are badly scarred from beast attacks. Many orphans come from Kholusia with worse stories than hers. One of her sparring partners is an elf whose twin was taken by the Sin Eaters, and who had to watch him blanch like a bone in the desert sun, mind and muscle both melting away slowly until the final transformation came. 

It is a cruel land they live in, unrelenting, and as they huddle together for shelter in what remains of Norvrandt, Lyna learns firsthand why each small relief has become so much more precious. For every reminder of death, there persists a whisper for life. The adages of remembering to rest, to eat something good, to indulge one's self in little ways in order to find the strength to wake upon the morrow -- these are their prayers against each endless morning, and the mornings never cease.

_Remember to care for those yet living,_ her teachers drill her, _and to number **yourself** among them when you do._

It is a difficult principle for Lyna, who prefers to push her limits whenever possible. Everyone sins for their own reasons in the Crystarium; everyone indulges a little bit. It is a habit of comfort now among the survivors of the Flood, embracing their vices and admitting them easily in confessions: _I let my temper out when I fight the eaters, I drink an extra glass in salute to my fallen brothers. I stay up late and pretend I am speaking with my wife again, and we are both laughing at what our children have done._

Yet, in the end, each indulgence is an individuality which belongs to the sinner who chooses it, a banner they wave against the hopelessness which would otherwise numb them down. 

This is how they choose to rebel, here, at the end of the world. This is how they remind themselves to live.

Lyna's sins are simple ones; she doesn't expect they will become more. A little extra food after she has invested in additional tumbling sessions on the practice floor, stretching and bruising herself in acrobatics. The occasional hour of laying late in bed, hearing the muffled sounds of other soldiers distantly through the stones. She spends two years in thrall to a mixture of bread and honey brought from the Greatwood, before she finally has fill of its sweetness; by the time she craves it again, the apiarists are already gone.

The Exarch's sins are equal to her in practicality. His temperament does not fluctuate throughout the years, as steady as the Tower that glimmers above the city and within his flesh. Always, he is thoughtful with her; always, he asks for nothing, content to give without admitting to his own needs. The few times she ventures her inquiries -- _do you prefer me to be stationed at Jobb, do you wish for me to liaison with Eulmore_ \-- the man merely shakes his head, and redirects the subject.

It is a luxury, to set her own expectations for herself. All the same, Lyna does not realize the full nature of what the Exarch has gifted her with until she hears the jealousy in some of the other trainees, discontent hissing like poisoned treacle in the corners of the sparring halls, _of course she's better, I bet she's taught by the best weaponmasters left in Norvrandt, I bet the Exarch **himself** trains her every sun._

But they are few voices among the many, very few, and after only a little time spent labouring in the wilderness, they begin to fade away like a nu mou's whisper. By the time she finishes spending three suns hauling unfinished lumber -- her hands swelling and hot with splinters, squinting by crystal-light as she carefully helps pluck clean her fellow trainees first -- the dissent is gone altogether.

She could have lived her whole life with the Exarch's presence overhanging her, a constant reminder of what she has lost in order to receive him in exchange. She could have struggled with the guilt of accepting his support, comparing it to what her mothers might have been able to provide in their Kholusian outpost. Instead, the Crystal Exarch has allowed Lyna the room to define herself, to make her own choices and her own way in the world -- as _Crystarium Guard Lyna_, and not, _the Exarch's ward_ \-- and for that, she gives him her love anyway.

  


* * *

  


Lyna grows older, in defiance of the odds. She grows hardier, sprouting like a weed in the shadow of the Tower. Calluses line her hands. She has a story for every scar. She makes her second Sin Eater kill at last while out on routine patrol with the other cadets -- a scrawny Forgiven Clamor, snapping it cleanly out of the half-dozen which stream out from the woods -- and only takes a grim, brief satisfaction in it before her attention is yanked back to her unit, weapons ready for the next wave.

Her disdain of the creatures never falters through the years. It does not matter that Sin Eaters are said to act on instinct, and instinct alone -- Forgiven they may be, but she cannot forgive a single one of them. There are too many who still behave as if they are fully possessed of thought, considering if they will attack or if it is time to move on. If they can think, then she can hold them accountable for their actions. She can hold them accountable for everything.

She watches their impassive, perfect faces make silent decisions, ones too cunning to be pure hunger, and she cannot help but blame them.

The year of Lyna's official maturity arrives as a footnote, sandwiched between paperwork she must sign and patrol schedules she must attend. She does not bother to celebrate. Instead, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her fellow cadets, Lyna feels the trust which unifies them together as a single force, and revels in that pride instead. 

That night, however, when she returns to her quarters, she discovers a plain, leather-bound bundle on her bed. Neither decoration nor signature adorn it, providing no announcement for its origins. The smell of mineral oil meets her nose before she is halfway through undoing the lacings. Cradled within the padding is a pair of chakrams, the metal smooth and glistening. Their craftsmanship is made distinct not through jewels or gold filigree, but in the solid heft of the metal and the supple leather of the grips; Lyna can already tell that they will last her for years to come.

Like her, they will be defined by their performance in the field, and not through hollow decorations.

She touches the weapons gratefully and brings them out on the next patrol, where they bounce their weight reassuringly on her belt, and remind her of her grandfather's care.

  


* * *

  


Inevitably, she sees the Exarch less and less with each season that slips past, as the path of Lyna's future settles down and she no longer needs to report on her studies. Their meetings change from weekly reviews to every other week, and then wither into a spattering of haphazard conversations littered throughout each moon. They speak more often as equals on both sides of a debate, settling in the balance of generations, standing on either end of their years as if they were truly grandsire and child together. 

She learns battle from her teachers and from the legacy of her mothers, but now, as she pelts headlong through early adulthood, she learns slowness from him. The Crystal Exarch is a man of introspection and tact; these are techniques which Lyna must learn as well, if she is to become an officer and nurture her own soldiers, and yet she finds herself ruefully lacking. 

She listens to his insights in their momentary afternoons, alternating between comments on the Crystarium's affairs and the diplomatic concerns of other militaries. The tea steeps on its own timetable, each cup hot and fragrant. Dark leaves unfurl between her fingers, opening for their final time underwater, the heat of the oven undone. _Teas taste better when dried by something other than the Light, many say, with the Exarch among them._ Lyna humors him each time, going along with it not from flavor, but from superstition salting the leaf. 

She takes note of all the Exarch's words, but it is in his moments of caution that she takes the most heed. Others might cringe back from danger out of cowardice, or a gawkish inexperience. Her grandfather is neither of these things. Others still might encourage action first, and consequences later; the Exarch is similarly circumspect, and Lyna understands why. 

From what she has witnessed, the Exarch is a mystel infused with crystal and nothing more. The apothecaries at Spagyrics have all seen him in turns, and Lyra knows that none of them have remarked to her of anything stranger than the stone itself. In all their time together, even she has caught him without his hood on occasion -- all accidents of practicality, byproducts of his height. It often slips when he reaches for items on particularly tall shelves, or while he attempts to read maps on the walls, or simply glances anywhere near the ceiling. 

Yet during even the most relaxed of moments -- when he is laughing after fumbling for a book which has ended up landing on his head -- Lyna cannot forget what she glimpses in her grandfather's face, burrowed more deeply than crystal, more insidious than an eater's venom.

Despite the calm in his voice, the steady strength which he emits, the Exarch's eyes are filled with a despair so endless that they make a lie out of every promise his mouth can shape. 

As it is, her grandfather's kindness is no less sweet for being entwined with sorrow. He persists in his generosities with the grim awareness of a man who is only able to survive his secrets because he is not being forced to speak about them. The tally of his regrets has been arranged instead like explosives in a storeroom, remaining docile so long as they are not touched. Whatever mourning the Exarch bears within himself, he has already counted it against the cost of being known, and has chosen the price accordingly. 

The Exarch recognizes the threat that he presents with his very existence. By holding himself apart, he protects the Crystarium's ability to hope.

It is what he needs, Lyna knows. It is what he needs, and she does not need to betray it.

  


* * *

  


In the season she makes captain, Lyna loses three of her soldiers to Sin Eaters.

As she recites her share of their praises at the memorials, she feels the echo of the Exarch's grief in her own eyes, and wonders: _is this how it felt for your first children, too?_

  


* * *

  


As the Exarch mentored her, so too does Lyna follow the same course as an officer. She leads by similar methods: taking younger students under her wing despite herself, humored by how she follows her grandfather's footsteps by simultaneously encouraging them and shoving them towards independence. The balance is more difficult than she expected. She does not always know when to press and when to relent; she challenges some recruits when they are already exhausted, and struggles to encourage others. She is far less skilled at it than her grandfather. The challenge humbles her each day.

She loves them all, however, all her clumsy recruits and her own attempts to nurture them. Gradually, as she settles into her role as Guard Captain, she feels a strange unfolding within her -- as if she, too, is a bundle of tea leaves which has been baked and seared by adversity, revealing its strength only now that it has been given room and water to bloom. As an officer, she cannot elevate any unfairly above the rest, but there is no need for concern; they are all her favorites, each and every one.

She stores her heart on the same shelf where the Exarch keeps his own: close enough to care, and far away enough to remain safe.

Like her fellows, she makes sure to sin a little, as is necessary -- in the Crystarium fashion, where the smallest kindnesses are often the most sorely appreciated. Even she must admit that the practice has taken on a particularly pleasurable defiance in the face of Vauthry. The people of the Crystarium willingly sully themselves away from his paradise, gleefully disqualifying themselves from entrance through his shining gates. There is no better way to revel in the judgement being passed upon them. They have all heard of the recent gluttony of Eulmore, and if that is virtue, then they will dance in vice.

The logic is clear. It is a moral offense to allow one's self to be filled with every kind of aether left in existence, drinking and eating and enjoying more substances than raw Light. To persist is to choose destruction.

Life itself -- as the eaters would teach them -- is the greatest sin of all.

It defines them as food, she knows, to embrace the label of sinners for the eaters. They define _themselves_ as food. It is a conscious acknowledgement. They turn themselves into prey and bare teeth at the ones who would devour them, reminding themselves through each trespass that they have not died quite yet.

Lyna does not fear making herself more alluring for their appetites. If they can smell her moral stench on the breeze, then they will come after her first.

But vice has its own inconveniences, as Lyna is often reminded of when it comes time for her turn on the rotation -- always at the worst possible timing, _always_ when she cannot afford to have a day off. 

Paperwork is nearly as lethal as a Sin Eater, she thinks dolefully as she cleans off another stack of requisition reports. Her soldiers are good at conserving their supplies, but they still must requisition for what can be spared -- and make explanations for what cannot -- and Lyna has endured the heavy, pointed sighs of their quartermaster too often of late.

The supply lists do not flinch under her disapproving stare. Lyna can feel the headache mounting behind her eyes; rubbing at her temples does little to relieve the pressure. Fever-grit fills her eyes. It feels as if every piece of her aches in a sickness brought on through inertia, reinfecting her with each fresh word upon the page.

When she hears her name being called, she only has the energy to grunt at the speaker, half-hoping to deny the interruption through the venue of poor manners.

"Captain," her soldier insists again, and hesitates. He is a new recruit, fresh from his acceptance, and he stammers every time he imagines he is violating protocol. "Forgive me, Captain Lyna, but -- when was the last time you had an indulgence?"

It takes her a moment to come up with an adequate excuse. "Last week, I believe. It was," Lyna squints, thinks, and seizes on the first memory to come to mind. "I ate extra for the morning meal, two portions of that fish with the lemon slices. It was worth every bite."

She hopes that that will be the end of it, but the recruit lingers nervously, torn between reality and following suggested guidelines. "We should ration at least once every few days, Captain. More, if we've been fighting. That's what I've been told, at least. I mean -- that's right, isn't it?"

It galls Lyna, hearing her own words coming back out of the mouth of a neophyte who hasn't killed more than five Forgivens. But ignoring it now will only erode her own authority; Lyna cannot insist her troops obey a rule that she herself willingly flaunts.

She pulls the roster towards her and casts a disappointed eye over its allotments. The list has no favors for her; the designated patrol is more than capable of handling the route alone, and there has been neither eater nor beastkin activity recently on the road.

"Very well," she relents, hiding her grimace back behind her teeth. "I shall see you all upon my return. Safe hunting."

  


* * *

  


She tries her best not to feel as if she is sulking as she slides through the streets of the Crystarium, out of uniform and out of sorts with civilian clothes. Movement helps, as much as she may resent it; once her blood is properly flowing again, some of the ache begins to ebb away. The crowds in the Musica are thick, but there are many who recognize her, and their greetings bombard her like a hailstorm. She slinks through the noise like a scrap of driftwood on the tide, bumping against the walkways until she finds herself nearly to the Wandering Stairs -- and there, finally rallying on the lowest step, she reconsiders her options.

Best to minimize the whole experience, she decides. If she can at least make a token effort, then she can justify spending the rest of her time on weapon drills, or reviewing the numbers for the supply requests. 

Adamant in her course, she heads up the stairwells and towards the bar. 

The tables there are already half-full, harboring those seeking food, drink, or merely company as they count the afternoon hours away. No one offers Lyna more than a passing glance. Glynard himself does not spare her any of his ebullience and warmth as he sees her approach. "Ah, Captain Lyna!" he sings out, spreading a welcoming arm. His teeth gleam, blunted jewels studding the pleased curve of his smile. "Is all well with you today?"

"It is well enough." She makes a weak attempt towards a friendly nod back, as brief as it is. No need to make the man fear from her own lack of enthusiasm. "I was wondering if you still had some of the tea from Kholusia, the Ashleaf Black? I am," she admits, tasting the scowl on her tongue, the drop in her voice as she mutters, "taking an _indulgence._"

The galdjent hides his amusement poorly, folding his arms as if they can mask the way his broad chest jerks with a chuckle. Then he sobers, shaking his head in the wish to say more, and hesitation for it at the same time. "Then I wish I had better news, Captain. Ran completely out of my stash last moon. Eaters came for the village and finally made it through their defense lines. Not only did they take the entire family who grew the strain, but also their only apprentice. There'll be no more," he concludes heavily, rocking back on his heels with a frown. "Not 'til someone manages to dig out the remains of their farm, see if any seed's still left, and hope the farmers wrote their roasting techniques down."

A groan claws free from Lyna's throat. "Wicked _white,_" she says under her breath, and means it both ways. Vivid recollection of the smooth, nutty taste of the leaf surfaces unexpectedly, as if -- now that it is out of reach -- she is cursed to crave it twelve-fold. "Then I shall take whatever substitute you would suggest, Glynard. Whichever leaf is of fair and comparable flavor -- I trust your palate." 

Yet mercy has poor sport of her already; Glynard frowns again, his brow creased with consideration. "No, no," he says reassuringly. "I know how you feel. I'd the same reaction myself when I heard the news. We'll not see the like again for many years to come. But since I don't have a decent tea in stock to match it to -- and risk sullying its memory -- allow me to soften the blow by offering a bounty of the vine instead. Only the best, thanks to Sweetsieve! 'Tis a blend of Crystarium and Citia grapes, very full in body with balanced vegetal notes. I can think of no one better to make use of a bottle than our dear Captain."

She holds up her hands in desperate protest, but Glynard is already turning away, humming cheerfully to himself as he sorts through the bottles behind the counter. Glass bellies clink merrily together. "A soured stomach will do no one any good," she blurts, dismayed by his unrelenting eagerness. "Least of all the morrow's drill sessions, if I'm found retching through them."

"A bottle shared is half the headache, twice the joy," he quips back at her, waggling one bottle mercilessly before suddenly shoving it into her arms. "If you fear the consequences of drinking it all yourself, then find a bed-companion to indulge. Better yet, find five!"

She clutches the vintage on instinct, folding her arms to her chest as if it were a babe she does not dare to drop all over the floor, lest it shatter. "But -- "

"Happy sinning," he tells her with sympathy, and winks.

  


* * *

  


She is strongly tempted to shove the wine into the nearest cubbyhole, hopefully to be discovered by a lucky scavenger -- but it would be a waste of good wine, of which there is precious little of, and of good intent, which would be even crueler. She cannot fault Glynard the kindness. She knows better than to be wasteful out of self-centered spite. There are many out there who have only the hazy memory of such delicacies, and who must treat worm-ridden bread as a feast. There are even more who will never live to drink a single drop of anything again.

She trots reluctantly back towards the barracks, wondering if she can catch one of her own soldiers to soak up the wine -- they would gladly pass around the bottle after pouring her a glass, and she would have barely more than the flavor to carry on her lips. But her own dalliances have worked against her: her patrol has already left for the Accensor Gate, and she should know better than to distract them anyway.

Bereft of other options, Lyna takes the longest way back to her personal quarters, her own steps making her a laggard. She works along the nearest flight of stairs and back down again, wandering erratically along the walkways. The bottle sways in its sack, lacings lax between her fingers so that the weight of it bumps heavily against her leg in reminder. 

It is in this manner that Lyna rounds a corner of the Trivium, and discovers the Crystal Exarch there.

He stands regarding the Hortorium below, one hand on the railing and the other on his staff. The air around them is thick with the cool humidity from the waters below, drinking in the multifold colors of the gardens along with the quiet from the Whispering Gallery only a short length away. At first, she assumes him to be deeply lost in thought -- but he turns as she pads down the rampway towards him, not wanting to interrupt the quiet of the Gallery by shouting.

"Guard Captain," he murmurs in greeting, and she brings her free hand up automatically in salute. He is quick to return it with a casual flick of his fingers, not standing on formality as he nods back. "Is it a restday for you this eve?"

"So I have been informed," she states darkly. She comes to a final halt at the railing, idly swinging the bottle in place like the weight of a steel flail, bumping it against her shin. "I've an entire bottle from Glynard," she reveals, her tongue glum. "And the poor luck of not having a reputation of keeping open tables, that I might disperse it to any number of strangers in my stead. I had been hoping for Ashleaf, but the eaters arrived there first. Glynard has made do for me, and 'twould be childish to misjudge his efforts."

Her reward is a chuckle -- held back in deference for the hush of their surroundings, the Exarch lifting his hand to further muffle the noise. When he lowers his fingers, however, there is a stiffness in the motion, a locking of the joints. Lyna marks it, and then fixes her attention there, trying to compare it to the last time she had seen him. Even for a being as long-lived as he, she has noted a gradual slowing of her grandfather's motions over the years, most notably when he is away from the Tower, and the life force it must be sharing with him. He has learned no caution for it; if anything, Lyna has caught him ignoring his health _more_ frequently over the years, not less.

_Stubbornness will be the final ruin of him, and not the Light,_ she thinks, but not without affection. 

It is only by virtue of experience that she catches next the faint hunching of the Exarch's shoulders as he moves to lean his staff against the railing -- a tightness which has fixed itself into place through strain and exhaustion, a second layer of stone that has seeped into his bones. Even this nearly escapes her. She gives him a swift second glance, eyes narrowing more on instinct than on proof. "And have _you_ been indulging lately, Exarch?"

It is her grandfather's turn to previcate. He exhales slowly, the puff of air through his cheeks almost childish, a denial by play-acting. "Ye-_es_," he claims, dragging out the word, and it is such a poor deception that she feels no shame in letting her scowl show.

"Recently?"

His fingers curl and uncurl on his staff. "Recently enough, I suppose," he confesses, which Lyna knows to mean, _anytime within the last twelve years._

_**Always,** he is like this_, she finds herself sighing inwardly in soundless, familiar exasperation, remembering how many times she had caught him in what she thought was a fit of distraction, and which had turned out to be the result of working for three days straight. "A man with so many secrets should be better at lying. You should _rest_," she insists, well aware of her hypocrisy. "Imagine the results if the eaters attack, and you are too weary to muster the Crystarium's defenses. If nothing else, then share the bottle with me, and we can both consider the duty complete."

The Exarch resists, as she expects he will -- seasoned enough with her in turn that her barb of guilt strikes with far less force than it might from another. "I am not affected as much by such intoxications, you know that, Lyna," he reminds her, attempting a cajoling tilt of his head. "And I've need of even less food and drink these days than others. Such supplies would go to waste with me. Give them to those who would benefit."

She struggles against the compulsion to roll her eyes.

"Simply because you can survive without the comfort," she informs him crisply, "does _not_ mean you do not deserve it when it comes."

"Ah," he says, an exhalation no louder than gauze brushed across the floor of the Gallery, and she knows that she has won.

She faces him down sternly, aware of their difference in height -- as if she were the elder, and he the errant kit of eight summers -- when in truth, she is the child who is mulishly bullying the warden of their living stronghold against the Light. Still, he is the one who weakens first. His resistance melts like paper-thin ice in the sun as he turns his head one way, and then another, unable to evade her gaze. 

Finally, his shoulders slack in their winding-up, as much as they are able. "Nearly a hundred years of being reminded to take care of one's self, and yet it still feels wrong," he admits.

"We are sinners, Exarch," she replies gently. "If we are not doing wrong, we are not living right."

  


* * *

  


They retire to the Circle Room, as she had named it once long ago: a child's name for a chamber that was identical in shape to any number of other platforms in that section of the Tower, disc upon disc ascending to the heights. It was a crude appellation, lacking any and all imagination -- but the Exarch had taken to it gamely, and Lyna had never managed an alternative. 

The room itself was a diminutive cubby set aside as a landing between stairwells, made even smaller by the number of supplies that were regularly stacked within it by the workers seeking to comb the Tower for additional resources, hoping to solve more of the structure's locks. Lyna had met the Exarch there once a week after she had started her formal schooling, listening to him point out troop movements and fortifications across Norvrandt so that she could apply theory to fact, his insights tutoring her so that she could understand her lessons better without the answers simply being handed to her. Engineers and architects had moved around them unceasingly, hauling out crystals and fabrics and other supplies from fresh corners of the Tower. The steady, heavy clomping of their boots in the background had been her metronome. She had listened to the beat of their labor while trying to memorize the correct fuel ratios for the Crystarium's ballistae, and fragments of pixie-speech as self-defense against the fae.

It has been years since the last time she visited, she realizes suddenly as she pulls off a drapecloth from one of the tables, shaking off the dust. Years since she has shared tea there with the Exarch, or discussed fortifications over maps in the Tower instead of on the barrack tables. The workers had exhausted the fresh routes eventually, leaving the Tower to sleep again until the next expedition; Lyna had become a cadet, and then a Captain. The Circle Room had been forgotten, like a child's toy, filling up with old equipment and silence.

She checks the mechanical kettle -- the _boilmaster_, as the Exarch liked to name it -- just in case someone had forgotten to clean it out from the last time, and is relieved to find it empty of any residual mildew. 

"Here, sit," she orders him, all propriety forgotten once the doors have closed. When he is slow to obey, she flaps a hand at him in dismay until he finally sets his staff aside. Even so, once the cork is finally freed and the wine performs its first tart exhalation upon the air, she pours for him first. 

He waits for her to fill her own glass in turn before taking an initial sip, and then a second one, thoughtfully, as if doubtful as to the flavor of the first. Warned by his hesitation, she sniffs and tastes her portion gingerly -- but nothing seems awry. If anything, it is a heady vintage, and she is all the more glad that she is not trying to consume the whole bottle herself. 

"It is potent," she offers aloud, however, just in case the Exarch's senses for such things have dulled over the years, or if the Tower is already purging his body of this small vice.

Her guess is correct; the Exarch leans back in his chair to reassess his own palate, allowing himself to wait before drinking further. "All the better to take one's mind off the morrow," he concedes, and lifts the glass to admire the color of the vintage, holding it up to the crystal-light. "Though I should not intrude too long upon your private time for reflection. If you prefer, I can head downstairs -- "

"I have the _entire evening_ to endure before my return," Lyna warns, feeling no shame in cowing her guardian: it is the best way to manage him. "Do _not_ think you can escape this onus any sooner than I."

The corner of the Exarch's mouth twitches. "Very well," he sighs, and though the man's tone is artlessly resigned, she can see the pleasure clearly in the way his smile warms his face, peeking out from under the velvety lap of his hood. "We shall face this adversary together. Tell me, how has the quartermaster divided your allocations for this season?"

They work through their first round without rushing, touching upon only the most minor of news: the state of Fort Jobb's amaros, the transport routes across Norvrandt, new developments on the Crystarium's armaments. Despite both their protests, the wine is smooth on Lyna's tongue. Its flavor is well worth Glynard's recommendation, as earthy and rich as vines digging deep into the soil. It settles well in her belly, even as the Exarch finally drains his glass and Lyna fills both vessels for a second rally. 

Her grandfather's habitual reluctance teases out another concern, one so often brushed aside that she nearly ignores it once more. "What will you do, the next time?" she asks aloud, honestly curious. The question is too small to mean so much. The next time he must indulge, must raise a child, must watch another cycle of years pass. The next time he will forget himself, and not have one of the chirurgeons or herself there to catch him. From a strategic standpoint as Guard Captain, she _must_ know, Lyna reasons; she will have to arm her successor against his ways, once she is gone forever.

"Not wine." The answer is swift. Then the Exarch follows up his own outburst with a laugh, rueful and wanting. "Though that is through no fault of Glynard. Something will come up, I am sure. Assuming, of course, there is time," he adds, all levity fading from his expression. "Eulmore concerns me greatly -- we cannot overlook Vauthry's increasing belligerence, which has only worsened since he has taken the official reins of the nation. To lose what was once our greatest blade and bastion both against the Light has far more consequences than simply military. I fear for the courage of those who yet fight, if even mighty Eulmore finds their brightest hope in surrender. We may see the balance of power tip against us once more in days to come."

All of which is true, and answers Lyna's question not at all. The Exarch tastes his wine again, and this time, he does not show any savouring of it. He looks so small suddenly in his misery, so helpless against the dread which has no answer, that Lyna reaches out on impulse -- her fingers resting on the back of his left hand -- as she might reassure a cadet who is still fidgeting before the battle. 

She does not expect his reaction. Her grandfather's shoulders jerk suddenly and then still; like a startled animal, his arm shifts away just enough to break the contact, but only by a thread-span's distance. His expression flickers with emotion before he can wrest control of it once more -- torn between the terror of someone in his space and the hunger for contact, his mouth tight with regret for his own yearning -- and Lyra wonders suddenly, fresh on the heels of her own concern, _when was the last time someone touched you in kindness?_

_Was I the last one who had?_

Surely not, she assumes, trying to recall the last time they had spoken in private. She had brought him a tonic from the Spagyrics only last week -- but then had merely set it upon the table after lecturing him about rest, threatening to set Bethden upon him again. She had waited long enough to watch him drink it, but there had been no time to linger. Before that, she had been occupied with the latest recruits at the Accensor Gate for nearly a full moon. Before _that_ \-- 

She cannot remember.

The two of them have hardly become strangers overnight. All the same, life has pulled at Lyna with a thousand new obligations to attend to, each with the squalling insistence of babes needing to be fed, and she has run to them all. Time has conspired against her. She has drifted away, slowly but surely, like a boat finding the new current of the future and becoming caught in its tides.

And he has let her -- the Exarch has _allowed_ her to float away, watching her become enveloped in the life she has always been so determined to seize, even as doing so has left him behind. They have both been caught up in the merciless responsibilities of living, spending the precious weeks between eater attacks trying to prepare for the next. Throughout all of her years, Lyna had thought little of it; she had held her chin up instead, focused on growing up as fast as she could, proud of her achievements as she became her own person in full.

Not once has the Exarch spoken up to indicate his thoughts on the matter, asking Lyna to linger behind rather than hunt her own dreams. He has never allowed himself to. No matter how much her grandfather might desire the company, he has never admitted to it out loud.

She knows -- in this world of eternal Light and even more eternal grief -- that he never will.

Lyna knows her sins. She knows those of her grandfather -- and she reaches out again, chasing his too-slow hand. This time, she is careful enough to only touch her fingertips to the side of his palm, a reassurance of another's living presence beside him that does not insist further.

There is nothing more than that: no obligation, no expectation, no ties of history or legacy to draw upon. They are two sinners at the end of the world; it is little more.

The Exarch pauses, holding himself frozen against even that slight warmth -- and then sighs: a long, slow exhalation, his shoulders slumping into it as if every drop of air he has ever tasted has been summoned into the sound. Gradually, he turns his hand over so that Lyna's fingertips settle on the lines of his palm, accepting the moment of simple comfort.

They stay like that for the length of a few, precious heartbeats, and then the Exarch gives Lyna's fingers a firm squeeze. He allows himself to linger only for a moment in silent gratitude, and then disentangles himself to reach for his glass again, drinking more freely as he allows himself to finally begin to relax.

He has been so very careful, she thinks, always watching for her boundaries and giving what he can from his own. 

Perhaps now it is her turn.

"'Tis a shame not to have the Ashleaf available for myself, the next time I need it," she ventures. She is clumsy in her excuses; she has never needed to lie to him, and has not developed the knack. "And since becoming a drunkard is not to my desire, I should search for a new leaf to brew. Since you remember what the Ashleaf tasted like, perhaps I should bring my efforts to you next week, and you may judge the flavor. And, should I remain unsuccessful... the week after?"

It is a poor attempt -- she is unskilled at dissembling -- and she is certain he can read her as easily as she can unveil him. But, even so, her grandfather hesitates over the offer, temptation warring in every small motion of his body as he cants his head towards her, his fingers twining around the glass's stem in consideration. 

"I would like that," he admits eventually, the corner of his mouth wry at his own weakness. "I... would like that very much. If you've the time available, that is -- I know you have many matters to attend to. Are you certain it would not be too great a burden upon your schedule?"

Lyna shakes her head at him, just as stubborn, and equally unwilling to give up. "Consider it an indulgence," she promises, feeling the years stretching back between them: a lifetime of unspoken kindness in a world which gives so little time for the offering. "To myself."


End file.
